Let me tell you now, the past few weeks have been hard. I am not a good invalid, so the highlight has been booking a Glencoe trip. Yes, I know there’s been Christmas and New Year and that. And I know I love these times. And I know the younger daughter’s friend thought about taking back the get well card he came round with on Christmas Day, after he was told to join the games and have a beer. But I haven’t really seen them this time round.
So I need the focus of a trip – oh, voted most romantic place in Scotland by the way, probably lucky to get a booking with the present cash in on some of Skyfall being filmed there. I swear, I love that place so much, I reckon I would start to feel better, if we were going there next week, not in misty time.
Anyway the brain bzzzzzzzd back in gear this morning. Like Buzz Lightyear it was going to infinity and beyond. The other half took up poetry writing but here was another…dare I say the dirty word…rejection? But he was very happy that a poem by someone he knew was there on the printed page.
(Personally my fav from Toy Story is the alien. His is of very simple constuction.)
He hadn’t been very active with the writing of late and this person is on a M.Lit course. It kind of gave the lie to that belief I have that writers are born not made. But then when I thought about it a bit more, I came to the conclusion, yes, they can be born and yes, they can be made, but beneath all that writers are driven.
Why else would any sane person pursue publication as their goal?
(Well okay we’re not sane either. I mean I know I’m not. Hands up now.)
Why – even if you say, well I don’t care if my work never sees the light of day, do you keep doing it? Feel uncompleted as a person unless you do? Crave that word fix like an addict? It doesn’t matter the house has just burnt down, the other half fell down a mine shaft and your left leg just got amputated – look this is all hypothetical. Just so long as you get that sentence on the page.
That might never see the light of day because tomorrow, or the day after, you might red pen it. Well?
The delete button’s very handy that way.
I won’t say I always wanted to write. I mean at the age of two? Three? Come on, you think I was to be found in the corner of some nursery penning the latest Look Janet, see John sensation? If only. Just think I might be creaming it in the Bahamas now.
What I know is I read extensively as a child and I must have had an imagination because I began to see stories, worlds, that were mine. I wasn’t encouraged in this delusion. But I kept going anyway. I think things can be taught. Of course they can because someone can see a story but have no idea how to structure it. Others just fly it by the seat of their pants. (Like I’m sort of doing with this blog today).
But without the drive, that engine, either way, is running on empty.
And that’s what I said to the other half. I mean, just look at Saint Shehanne still putting down however many words a day…pretty crap ones, I tell you now, over the last few weeks.
Why? Because I don’t know how not to. And I wonder if that’s the truth of most writers.
Ps…I leave you with a picture of Glencoe. Who knows you will probably have to suffer a blog about Scotland’s romantic places next….